


When You Say Nothing At All

by exbex



Series: Eccentricities by Osmosis [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Cock Rings, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	When You Say Nothing At All

John Watson is a man of action, not one to use more words than is necessary. This quality is belied by the letters to John’s (former) girlfriends that Sherlock had sent to Mycroft in the early days of their relationship. (Sherlock’s motives, Mycroft knew, had fallen somewhere in one of two categories: either to cement John and Mycroft’s relationship with an awkward but well-meaning attempt to convince Mycroft of John’s earnestness, or an attempt to sabotage the relationship by embarrassing John. A definitive answer will remain one of the great mysteries to Mycroft). The letters are relevant only to establish a piece of knowledge that Mycroft had intuited from the beginning: John is a man who shows, rather than tells. He is one who loves deeply, a fact that Mycroft knows not only from his experience with John, but from John’s own frank sharing of his history. Mycroft knows exactly what Mary Morstan meant to John, and what her death did to him, and not solely from the man’s own admission. John’s failure to maintain relationships prior to Mycroft, to the eye of anyone trained to observe and deduce, were as much the result of the brutal reality that the physical, emotional, and intellectual benefits offered by the women in John’s life, however honest and well-meaning, were simply insufficient to fit alongside that place within John that had been fulfilled by Mary.

It is something that Mycroft understands implicitly, the weight of his own loss still heavy. How and why he and John seem to mesh well enough to satisfy the ache is something that is beyond the understanding of even an intelligent man like Mycroft. 

John is also one who is easy to label as average. His needs, his wants, seem to be basic. An intelligent, confident, honorable man, but a regular bloke at his core. Those who know John well are rarely fooled into believing that he is anything less than remarkable. John may be given more to action than to words, but his ability to communicate with less obvious means is a point of fascination to Mycroft. The registration of their civil partnership is a memory that resonates for such a reason. In spite of a semi-public proposal, neither Mycroft nor John were inclined towards an elaborate ceremony. The simple event of signing a statement in front of Sherlock and Lestrade should have been unromantic, but there was something moving about the manner in which John signed his name. There had been no hesitation, but a steady hand and a look in those eyes of his that spoke of determination, and even more of a kind of joy that bordered on glee. Mycroft constantly dismisses his interpretation as maudlin, but it doesn’t stop him from playing it in quiet moments and allowing a small, discreet smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It’s the first year of their marriage and with as much time as Mycroft spends studying every inch of John, he still misses some things. Later he’ll blame this night’s mishap on the distraction of an odious, albeit charismatic, acquaintance.

Ian Phillips uses people, a distinguishing characteristic that Mycroft has been cognizant of for years. When he spies Mycroft sitting alone at the table, he makes his way across the restaurant’s dining area and Mycroft curses the fact that his recently grown beard doesn’t conceal his identity. Mycroft can’t be certain of why a software developer would want to engage him in conversation. He’s reasonably certain it has nothing to do with mere pleasantries; Mycroft would almost be willing to bet a sum of money that an image search of the word ‘opportunist’ would produce the man’s picture. Mycroft suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and instead stands and manages the patently false smile that, admittedly, most of the world sees.

“Mycroft Holmes, dining alone?” Ian produces in lieu of a greeting.

“Actually, I’m here with my husband,” Mycroft replies, and then proceeds to thank every possible power or fate that has ever been theorized, including every deity that he can recall and even chaos theory that John returns from the washroom at that moment.

Mycroft resists the urge to take John by the hand and bolt from the restaurant. It’s times such as these that he wishes he had Sherlock’s cavalier attitude concerning social interaction.

“John, Ian Phillips. Ian, my husband, Dr. John Watson.”

“Charmed,” Ian says with barely a glance at John and Mycroft suddenly wants to grind his teeth, a feeling worsened when Ian rests a hand on Mycroft’s arm and leans toward him. “My card,” Ian says unnecessarily as he slides it into the pocket of Mycroft’s coat.

The tension in John is noticeable immediately, but Mycroft forces himself to wait until they’re safely ensconced in his home, ready for bed, before broaching the subject.

“Something’s bothering you,” Mycroft states, rather than asks.

“I told you I was jealous,” John replies bluntly.

Mycroft had filed away that bit of information when John had told him, earlier in their relationship. Now he feigns casualness as he pulls the bedcovers back. “Ian is a troll who uses people.”

“Clearly,” John replies sharply.

Tone can convey a wealth of information. With one word Mycroft has deduced that John is not, as some would assume, afraid of Mycroft being tempted to stray. He simply chafes at the thought of someone encroaching on his territory. Mycroft can’t help the small smile that forms. It’s a natural projection of John’s protectiveness. It’s also a game, a psychosexual one, and it’s Mycroft’s move.

“You just don’t like being confronted with the possibility of having to share.” It’s a statement definitively ungrounded in any semblance of veracity, meant only to provoke a very specific reaction, and they both know it, just as they both know what John’s next move will be. Fortunately for Mycroft, Watsons are apparently built sturdily but low to the ground, so while powerful, John has all the litheness of a basset hound.

“You’ve been lifting weights again,” John breathes as Mycroft pins him to the mattress.

“And you never put the handcuffs back inside the drawer,” Mycroft replies as he secures John’s wrists. “Sloppy for a military man. Whatever will the housekeeper think?”

“She’ll admire my tactics.” John grins cheekily.

“They’re terribly transparent though.”

“Is that your way of calling me a slut? Because I believe that the phrase ‘pot calling the kettle black’ would apply.”

Mycroft has been slowly pushing John’s t-shirt up over his chest, shoulders, and face. He stops when the fabric covers his eyes, and leans down to silence John’s mouth with his own. He pulls away only to divest John of his pajama bottoms, pleased to find him hard already. Mycroft rummages in the bedside drawer momentarily for the lube, then returns to gently push John’s legs apart and prepare him.

“You’re not even going to get me off first?” John complains even as he spreads his legs farther apart. “Eight months of marriage and the romance is gone.”

Mycroft tsks. “If I bring you off now I won’t be able to ride you after I finish fucking you.” In order to silence the inevitable reminder that John is no longer in his twenties, and to illicit the gasp that is Mycroft’s fourth favorite sound that comes from John’s mouth, he carefully slides a cock ring over John’s shaft, and breaks into a grin when the expected gasp is followed by a string of curses.

He claims John’s mouth again before slowly trailing a line of kisses down John’s neck and chest, stopping to slowly suck each nipple before finally reaching his destination and tonguing John’s length. John curses once again. “You are one filthy whore,” he sighs.

Mycroft briefly considers silencing John’s tongue with his cock, but eschews the thought as he wants to spend as many glorious minutes as possible buried deep inside John’s toothsome arse before he comes. So Mycroft places John’s ankles on his shoulders and slowly inches his way inside. John’s surprisingly well-defined abdominal muscles stretch, taut, as he clenches around Myroft’s cock and throws his head back in a debauched moan. Interestingly enough, it’s what John doesn’t do that sends Mycroft over the edge; the way John doesn’t tug at the handcuffs, reminding him of just how generous John really is with his entire self, all while relishing his own generosity with complete abandon.

Mycroft is nearly entirely satiated, but he pulls out and prepares himself, then slathers John’s cock with lube after gingerly removing the cock ring. He’s exhausted as he settles himself onto John, pushing himself off the mattress with shaking arms, but his fatigue is rivaled by the fullness and by the appreciative sounds coming from the head of the bed. The sensations are nearly overwhelming, but once John is undone and Mycroft is rising unsteadily to his feet, he’s wistfully aware that they’re both spent. He cleans them both up with the t-shirt he pulls from John’s eyes after releasing his wrists, then places the cuffs in the bedside drawer with a pointed look.

“No one gets to just assess you like that,” John says as if the word leaves a particularly unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Mycroft shifts so that he’s laying on his side, next to John’s prone form, reaching a hand out to rub his back lazily. John looks at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, but his gaze holds confirmation of Mycroft’s earlier thought. John is not a man easily threatened, but one who is fiercely loyal, and ready to spring into action at the knowledge that someone he loves is receiving less than the respect that he or she deserves. Action may take the form of retaliation or...reassurance, and John is a clever man, one who knows just what flavor of reassurance is most fitting.

“Right you are, Doctor,” Mycroft simply murmurs before leaning over to claim one final kiss, knowing that a sparse phrase conveys more than enough understanding.


End file.
